


The Violinist

by Onesmartcookie78



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: American!in Birmingham, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asshole Tommy Shelby, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Finn's Teacher, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I concur, I saw a tag for a fic that said "cillian murphy would be disappointed in me", Just Two Traumatized People Falling in Love, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Modern Girl in Birmingham, Possessive Tommy Shelby, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, Psychological Trauma, Sad Tommy Shelby, Something at first sight, Time Travel, Tommy Shelby's EYES oh my god y'all, Touch-Starved Tommy Shelby, Trauma, Violins, World War I, but not love nor hate, sex instead of therapy, teacher!oc, well at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29362185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onesmartcookie78/pseuds/Onesmartcookie78
Summary: Emma’s a long way from home. Uprooted from both her time and her country, she’s just trying to make sure that she doesn’t alter history in any way. But somehow, her “plain teacher” act fails to convince Tommy Shelby, and soon she’s surrendering her morals and herself to him. Tommy Shelby/modern!OFCJoin my Discord!
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Comments: 67
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Peaky Blinders and I probably never will, rip
> 
> Also big shoutout to nini_pls and LynnDenbaum for being an awesome friends and betas

She stands in front of the mirror with a frown. Her hair is encroaching on her shoulders. It’s far too long, but she’s loath to cut it. Examining the length between her fingers, she contemplates that it’s the small things she misses the most. Little things, like being able to grow her hair as long or as short as she likes it without worrying about the opinions of others.

Little things, like being able to use slang from her time period, being able to call people “sis” and “my guy” and “king/queen.” She misses saying “we stan” and “no cap” and wishes people knew what vine was. She misses the convenience of technology, her smart phone, the internet, hot showers, supermarkets...she even misses bad movies and repetitive pop music and those stupid Tik-Tok dances. But most of all, she misses the ability to be a strong, confident, educated woman. Of course, that had come with its own challenges, with men accusing her of being a bitch and catcalling her—and all the other sexism and misogyny that came with being a woman. Still, she’d had the opportunity to be herself, had lived so much better a life than she does now, where she has to pretend to be _weak_ , pretend to be _meek_ , pretend to be _dumb_.

For she’s long realized that this is not a dream, that she has somehow been transported back in time, that she’s _stuck_ here, no matter how much she doesn’t want to be. Fighting the change, resisting her new version of reality, or trying to convince herself of her own insanity—none of it amounts to anything other than exhaustion. Perhaps she is insane. Perhaps she is in some sort of extended coma. Regardless, she is still somehow here; can still feel hunger and pain; can still speak to passerby. There are no boundary lines that she can find, no rough edges or fuzzy areas that are ill-imagined like she would expect of a dream. She is still constrained by limitations of society such as money and class and sex, awfully complex rules for a dream. And, no matter how much she wills it, she cannot fly. All evidence that this is real, and even if it is not, that it is real _enough_. Real enough that she should take it seriously.

She reflects now on what it had been like before, back when she’d first learned that she was trapped in 1916. Even then, she’d been spurred into action rather quickly. It had only taken twenty minutes of wandering around town for her to become convinced that this wasn’t a dream.

An old man had come up to her in the middle of the street, clearly drunk despite it barely being midday, and propositioned her.

“You a whore?” he’d asked in the tones of someone well-versed in this sort of transaction.

“No,” she’d sniffed.

“Yer on the wrong street then,” he’d returned with a snort, and she’d glanced around her only to find women in various stages of undress undulating and gyrating in front of a storefront which she now realized belonged to a brothel.

Even to this day, Emma is grateful that she hasn’t had to resort to sex work. Not that there is anything wrong with sex work, so long as it’s consensual and voluntary, but her own relationship with sex is tenuous and inexperienced at best. Confident in her abilities to please a man (beyond lying still beneath him) she is not. And that isn’t even taking into account the amount of risk that comes with being a sex worker prior to the invention of good birth control and condoms (had they even been invented yet?) to prevent the spread of disease. Emma hadn’t then, nor did she now have any plans of becoming pregnant nor of getting crabs.

And so, her first goal upon her mysterious arrival had been to obtain suitable clothing so that she might blend in and actually be able to get a job. Her biggest obstacle in this endeavor? Money. All the currency that she’d had was too crisp, too clean, too _modern_. She’d had a few American dollars, which are completely worthless here, and a twenty pound note printed a hundred years too late to use, so that hadn’t done her much good. She’d had credit cards and debit cards and even her dad’s black Amex card, but none of those had helped her either.

So, she’d sold her earrings. They were garnet, her birthstone, and silver, and they’d fetched her enough to buy proper clothes at a dress shop. The shopkeeper had asked a few questions about Emma’s previous dress, a beautiful blue satin number, the hem of which had been stained with muck and literal shit, and Emma had fed her a story about being a wealthy American woman who’d refused a proposal and now had nothing. The woman had _hmphed_ at Emma’s good fortune—what kind of woman fled a life where the worst thing to happen to her was an engagement to a man she doesn’t love? How privileged was Emma that she would think it better to live in poverty and squalor than to be with a man who, while perhaps too old and unattractive, would at least make sure she didn’t go hungry? And so, Emma had earned no sympathy. It was not until Emma had agreed to give up the gown to the dressmaker in exchange for a few more pounds that she had managed to get a smile out of the other woman.

Next on her agenda had been getting a job. What kinds of jobs could women even hold? Emma had made a list in her head, at the top of which was _teacher_. Emma could be a teacher, right? Sure, she hadn’t been to school for _years_ , approaching twenty-four (and now twenty-six) as she was, and _sure_ , her talent lay mostly in playing violin, but she could read and do calculus and that was probably more than most, particularly more than most _women_. As a result, she had gone to the nearest school, _begged_ for a job, and, after a brief assessment of her abilities, she was found to be qualified enough ( _for an American,_ the headmaster had said snidely, despite Emma’s certainty that she was more educated than him) to work there.

At the time, she’d had no concept of how good or bad the pay she’d been offered by the school was. At the time, she hadn’t even known how much shillings and pence were worth. She has more of an idea now, but if someone were to ask Emma their value in American dollars, or their value when accounting for inflation, she’d still have no idea.

The important part was that the sum had been more than enough to pay for her room in the boarding house with all the other single women of this city and still have enough to put away so that she might diversify her wardrobe later. Back then, she’d had to stick to wearing the same outfit until it was so dirty, she could practically see the smell lines coming off it, at which point she would don her second white lace shirtwaist and another skirt. These garments were almost exact replicas of her first outfit, with the exception of them being, perhaps, a slightly brighter shade. However, this was owed to the absence of the dirt and grime resultant from wear, and not an inherent difference in the colors themselves. This process had continued ad infinitum, until she’d found the time to launder her last outfit, and even still, she could not get the clothes anywhere near as clean as they were before she’d worn them. Regardless, her lacking wardrobe was rather common; there wasn’t an excess of anything back then, not even _tea_.

Because of the war.

Oh, the _war_. World War I, which she had learned about in history classes a dozen times over, started because of secret alliances and the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand—who, to this day, she still only remembers the name of because of that band. Yes, the Great War. It wasn’t due to end until Armistice Day, which she knew to be in November, but she had forgotten the year. Would it be 1917 or 1918 that the fighting officially stopped? And when would the soldiers be back from the war?

She hadn’t known what to do with that time, not back in those days. The days when she had still clung onto the pipe dream that she might eventually wake up from this nightmare. Work was the only thing she was sure of, the only thing that had made sense, and so she had worked, slogging through life, each day more tedious than the last.

Her students were okay enough, but the things she was expected to do were just plain stupid: lectures instead of group projects, lesson plans set by the headmaster himself, and even the expectation that she smack misbehaving students across the knuckles with a ruler. A third of the day, she would spend teaching her students math, the next third on indoctrinating them with nationalism, and the last third they spent knitting for the soldiers in the trenches. Considering she hadn’t had any idea how to knit—an expected skill of a woman in this time period—there had been a steep learning curve to this exercise. Luckily, one of the women in the boarding house had taken pity on Emma one day while she was attempting to knit in the common room and had given her a crash course on how to best weave the wool into something vaguely resembling a sock. Mary had expressed her surprise that Emma hadn’t known how to knit but had seemed to accept Emma’s story about being from a wealthy American family and never needing to learn the skill.

A year had passed slowly and then all at once, and suddenly, it was November of 1918. Emma had long since resigned herself to her fate, accepted that she would never go home, never tour the world as a famous soloist ever again.

Even now, she misses her parents, she misses her friends, she misses modern conveniences, she misses her violin. Sure, the boarding house has a piano, but she is an amateur at best, completely helpless at worst. Still, she plays occasionally, her limited repertoire enough to attract a crowd of women who have never been able to afford the luxuries that Emma herself had taken for granted.

(And God, does she miss the finer things in life; expensive makeup and perfumes and dresses, none of which she can presently afford.)

Over the course of the last few years, she’d fielded many questions about herself and her life—where she was from, her friends back in America, her estranged parents, her former fiancé, how she came to arrive in Birmingham with nothing more than the clothes on her back. She’d rehearsed the answers every night until they stuck after the first time she was asked; she was from New York, her friends in high society were no longer speaking to her following her departure to England, her parents had disowned her, her former fiancé was a sixty-year-old businessman with whom she had never gotten along, and she’d fled her own engagement party without much thought or planning. She’d never been particularly good at bullshitting, so this practice had gone a long way to helping her get more comfortable doing as much. Soon, she was capable of lying her way through any number of questions directed towards her home life, from the more innocuous to the more specific and therefore more dangerous.

All in all, her life was going well enough, even if it was a bit boring.

Until one day.

It starts out as normally as all her days do. She wakes early, still somehow hoping and expecting—beyond all hope and expectation—that she will find the familiar warmth of her apartment in New York City, with its comforting pale-yellow walls and all her certificates and awards. Instead, she awakes to finds herself in her shoebox of a room within the boarding house, with its cracked ceiling and floorboards that creak like they might give at the slightest hint of weight, her eyes crusted with dried tears from the night previous. The more she thinks on her circumstances, the more she finds herself steeped in disappointment and loathing, feelings with which she is all too accustomed these days.

She breaks from her melancholic stupor and dresses in silence, then heads to the bathroom she shares with the other women of the boarding house. She’s lucky enough not to have to wait in a line today in order to relieve herself. As she stands in front of the small mirror pinching her cheeks to rid herself of some of the sallow pallidness that has plagued her since losing her _joie de vivre_ , she wonders, not for the first time, whether she is lucky or unlucky to have woken up in the first place.

Perhaps a heavy thought for so early in the morning, but one that she can’t seem to rid herself of.

She turns back to the mirror and realizes her hair is encroaching on her shoulders; it’s far too long, but she’s loath to cut it. Examining the length between her fingers, she contemplates that it’s the small things she misses the most. Still, as she arranges her hair into something vaguely resembling 1918 fashion, it dawns on her that this costuming—this primping and preening—is her armor. The only thing that keeps her from being discovered, from being outed as someone not from this era, is her ability to adhere to social norms and expectations, and if that means perching this stupid little hat atop her head, then that’s what she will do.

That done, she heads downstairs and eats a bowl of plain porridge with Mary and Gertrude. The three of them are consistently up earlier than the rest of the women in the boarding house, though Mary and Gertrude have the excuse of working in one of the many factories that haunt Birmingham with their steep, imposing smokestacks which loom omnisciently over the city like Big Brother. After exchanging some niceties and finishing their breakfast, Mary and Gertrude leave for their shifts and Emma retires to the common room, where she spends a not insignificant amount of time trying to improve her sewing and knitting abilities.

When the clock strikes seven, she starts toward the school the same as she always does.

It’s there that her day takes a turn for the worse.

The soldiers are coming home today. Everyone knows it, even Emma, whose head may as well be buried in the sand of the nonexistent beaches of Birmingham for how much she pays attention to the news and the town’s gossip; every day, the paperboy offers her a paper, and every day she declines.

She has no interest in this life that she’s living, beyond her part in it. Unlike the many other occupants of this city, she had known that Germans would lose and that the Triple Entente would win. She knows that there will be a brief period of happiness before it all comes crashing down and the second World War starts. She knows these things, and so she doesn’t concern herself with world news, and barely with the news of Birmingham itself.

And so, she refuses the morning paper again and continues on her way to the school.

Her students are particularly rowdy today, and there are a few who didn’t even bother to show up for class. In particular, Finn Shelby, who has, insofar, missed seven whole days this month alone.

Ugh, Emma’s going to have to talk to Polly again, isn’t she?

It’s not that she dislikes the other woman (quite the opposite, in fact) but she knows that Finn will get a beating for skipping again, and it’s not like she enjoys being the cause of it. Sure, it’s his own actions that will lead to the archaic form of discipline, but Emma _is_ the one reporting him to his aunt, so she can’t help but feel partly responsible.

She’s never been one for corporal punishment, doesn’t believe that a stick is truly more motivating than a carrot, believes it leads to resentment rather than respect, but this is the way that things are done in this time period, and her goal, above all else, is to blend in. To avoid making any sort of waves.

(Because she knows what they say about a butterfly’s wings and she doesn’t want to leave her mark on history.)

So, today of all days, there’s a sort of restless energy to her students that she fully and wholly understands; there are to be no afternoon lessons so that they can reunite with their loved ones, and _boy_ are they eager. Since all the able-bodied men have been over in France for the last four years, she can’t blame them.

(She tries not to think about her parents, who she misses dearly, who she hasn’t seen in years and will probably never see again.)

But Emma, who has no one to meet on the train platform—and yet who plans to go to show her support of the soldiers regardless just to fit in—can’t wait for lessons to be done for the day herself. Alas, she’s in charge of managing the classroom, and so when students are blatantly misbehaving and complaining that they have lessons today _at all_ , it falls upon her to smack them with her ruler.

And so, most of her morning is comprised of her students grousing as she lectures, while Emma, never looking up from her lesson plan, doles out punishment like candy.

When lunch time finally comes, Emma tucks into the bread and hard cheese she’s brought with her and starts grading the quiz she had administered earlier this morning, yet another assignment Finn Shelby and the others who had skipped would have to make up. By this point, her students are practically bouncing in place as they await their dismissal, and Emma finds her own foot shaking under the table in anticipation.

After she finishes up at the train station, she’ll have the rest of the day off, and she plans to make the best out of it; she’s finally saved up enough to buy her own violin and she plans to look like a lady while doing so. Tomorrow, Saturday, she plans to don her cleanest dress and head into London, where a shopkeeper will sell her a violin for a reasonable price. Having inspected the instrument beforehand, she knows it to be cheap, out of tune, and desperately in need of new strings, but that isn’t what matters; what matters is that she’ll finally be getting back a piece of her old life.

It had taken a reasonable amount of saving to get to this point. Careful budgeting and pence-pinching aside, she plans on making an occasion out of the transaction. She’ll take a nice bath this afternoon, and tomorrow, she’ll borrow some perfume and makeup from one of the other women of the boarding house, and then off to London she’ll be. While she’s there, she’ll window shop and have afternoon tea, and it’ll be _perfect_ …or so she hopes.

At the very least, it will give her a reason to get up on Saturday, for normally she spends most of the day in bed, wallowing.

Finally, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and Emma only sticks around long enough to make sure that all her students have left (and taken all their belongings along with them) before she’s out the door herself. She locks up the classroom and then follows the crowd to the train station, which is just outside of town; in fact, it’s close to the boarding house, which sits on the edge of the city near the factories. Its location is probably at least part of the reason that the boarding house is often mistaken for a brothel, with the main reason being that it’s exclusively for women. What else could a group of women be doing living in such a large building together but selling their bodies for money? Emma can recall being called a whore several times just for where she lives, never mind her actual career. Certainly, being a teacher isn’t the most glamorous of professions, nor the most profitable, but it pays well enough that she doesn’t have to work a second job, let alone one that makes her so vastly uncomfortable.

When Emma arrives to the platform, it’s already swarming with people, almost all of whom are dressed to the nines. If Emma had had anyone to meet on the platform she might have cared more about her own appearance, but as it stands, she’s here solely to adhere to the patriotic zeitgeist of the post-World War I era.

That’s not to say that she doesn’t care for her appearance at all, as evidenced by the amount of time she spends on it each morning, but she is far more focused on fitting in than standing out, something all the women seem to be trying to do today. Emma can’t blame them: if she had a beau who had been away for the past four years, then she would do her best to make him fall in love with her all over again, too.

As it so happens, she bumps into Polly while they all wait for the soldiers to return. The train is late, because of course it is, and so Emma takes the time to tell the distracted older woman that she will need to come into school on Monday to have a discussion about Finn’s absences. Polly murmurs her agreement, then introduces Emma to Ada, Finn’s older sister and her niece. Emma barely pays attention, for Ada is far beyond school-aged and Emma will likely never see her around Birmingham. Ada, for her part, doesn’t seem all that interested in Emma, either, instead wringing her hands in anticipation.

Finally, a distant whistle signals the arrival of the train. Emma steps away from the Shelbys so that they might greet their missing family members without her interference and, in the process of doing so, bumps into Ruth, one of the other women from the boarding house.

“Alright?” Ruth asks her as the train pulls to a stop in front of them.

Shivering slightly at the warm breeze that comes with its arrival, Emma responds, “Yes, and you?”

Ruth shrugs. “Waitin’ fer me fiancé.” She eyes Emma up and down speculatively as if to ask who Emma’s here to see.

Ignoring the implied question, Emma just nods mutely, thinking—not for the first time—about how odd she is to these people with her lack of family and spouse. She’s far too old to be unmarried by today’s standards, but she can’t bring herself to care. Perhaps she should—after all, it makes her stand out a little too much for her liking. Plus, it probably doesn’t help convince people that she isn’t a whore.

She’s snapped from her thoughts when the first man stumbles out onto the platform, dressed in full uniform, and into the awaiting arms of what looks to be his mother. He can’t be much older than eighteen, Emma would guess, and not for the first time, she laments the loss of humanity brought about by the war. Men, some of whom were barely out of childhood, being forced to take lives, being forced to watch their friends die in front of them…what must it be like to pull the trigger? To know that you’re the cause of someone ceasing to exist on this mortal plane? To see the life fade from someone’s eyes, perhaps a brother or a friend close enough to be one?

What would it be like to see your family after four years of blood and sweat and dirt? After four years of just trying to _survive?_ What would it be like to go so long just trying to make it out alive only to be told you now have to _live?_

It’s only been two years since she’s last seen her parents, and Emma already knows that she would do anything to be with them again. In some ways, she feels like these soldiers; she’s not living, she’s just alive.

She wonders if her parents think she’s dead. What must they have thought when they couldn’t reach her? When they entered her apartment with their keys and found that she wasn’t at home? Did they think she’d been kidnapped? Were they still looking for her?

She watches as a group of three men disembark. One of them has a babyish sort of face, his cheeks almost chubby with youth; the next man is older looking, but he has a boyish gleam to his warm eyes; and the last man is all angles, with a sharp jaw and even sharper hypothermic eyes. It’s the last man who she inadvertently makes eye contact with, his very gaze seeming to dare her to look away. And, as much as she would like to, she finds that she can’t.

They stare at one another as he gets off the train, locked in a battle of wills, and she wonders what he sees. A young woman wearing clothing that is certainly out of date, with chalk staining the sides of her skirt from where she’d accidentally wiped her hands on the fabric. Someone expecting no one and nothing all at once and yet here regardless.

She knows what she sees: she sees coldness and trauma and thinks to herself that this man is not just bent but _broken_.

It isn’t until he’s ensconced in Polly’s embrace that his eyes finally surrender hers from detainment, his own slipping shut as he allows himself, however briefly, to consider the fact that he is no longer in France.

As his eyes close, Emma feels something. It’s not happiness nor sadness but it’s something, and that’s all that matters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma thinks about the man with blue eyes for a bit and then journeys off to London to pick up her violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I'm completely blown away with the response that this fic has received! Thanks so much to everyone who commented! I never thought that this story would receive quite so much attention, so I'm really glad to hear from all of you how much you enjoyed it. I'm a bit nervous to post this chapter just because I'm worried the story won't live up to your expectations, dear readers, but my friends and betas have shown me their love and support and encouraged me to post :') special thanks to them 
> 
> With this chapter we venture straight into E territory. There is a masturbation scene at the beginning of this chapter. If you would like to skip it, please jump down to the line break starting with "Emma sleeps better than she ever has..."

She soaks in the bath for longer than she intends. It starts out innocent enough, with her washing her hair and face, but soon devolves into something filthy. She’s just been so _stressed_ recently, with school and everything, and tomorrow is the day she’s finally going to reclaim something for herself. So, it’s not exactly out of nowhere that she would want to reclaim this, too.

Emma has only had sex a few times in her life, and has masturbated even fewer times, mostly after reading smutty excerpts from bad harlequin romance novels back in her own time period. She’s never really… _tried_ to do so without any sort of motivation beyond simply having the opportunity.

Still, she allows her hands to trail down, down, _down_ , and thinks about the man who works at the shop where she gets her cheese for lunch. He’s married and far older than her, probably at least sixty, but that doesn’t preclude him from being attractive. He has strong arms from whatever labors come with cheese-making, and his beard is nice enough, though she’s never been one for beards herself. She’s always preferred her men clean shaven, and without warning, her mind flicks to the memory of those soldiers from yesterday.

Her fingers find her clit, circling it tentatively as she thinks about the strong young men she’d seen, in their sharply pressed uniforms, with their broad shoulders and lean muscles. It’s good but it’s not quite enough. She slides her other hand until its positioned in front of her center, and then slips her finger inside. She’s both relieved by the feeling and burdened by it all at once. She still needs _more_.

She scans her mind for the soldiers again, but all of a sudden she’s accosted by the memory of one specific man, and all she can think of is hypothermic eyes, so cold, so blue that she can hardly stand to recall them. She hooks the finger inside of her and adds another, pressing until she finds a spot that makes her _gasp._ He’d had a jawline like the straight edge of a razor and full lips that she wouldn’t mind tasting, but it’s the eyes, _his eyes_ , that she can’t stop thinking about, so impersonal and detached from what was going on around him. What would it be like to fuck a man like that? A man who might as well consider her a piece of furniture? Would she be able to thaw his eyes? Or would he treat sex with her like a chore to cross off his list?

Something about the idea of it, about the thought that she could make him come back to reality—could make a man whose expression had been so severe, so utterly _blank_ —could make him _moan_ makes something shoot through her.

Her fingers are crooking just right as she imagines the noises he might make. Gasps, maybe even grunts, as his long, beautiful fingers find her hips, as she rakes her nails down his back. Would he enjoy that? A little pain and a little pleasure all at once? She pictures her nails scoring into his shoulders, down the line of his spine. He’d tell her to stop but she wouldn’t listen, and then his hand might take her throat as he forces her to comply, squeezing her even as she squeezes around him.

She’s close. _God but she’s close_. She just needs—in her mind’s eye, she sees blue, bright with heat and she _lets go_ , and suddenly her whole body seizes, her inner walls fluttering against her fingers.

She feels a brief moment of guilt, for imagining that man, the man at the train station whose name she doesn’t even know. But it’s not like she’ll ever see him again.

And so, she drains the now cold bathwater and rises from the tub, her fingers pruned, and dresses for dinner.

* * *

Emma sleeps better than she ever has, and when morning comes, she’s more ready to face the day than she has been in a long time. For once, she doesn’t drag her feet as she goes through her routine. She still has to wash away the dried tears, but this time, she has mascara to make her feel a little more secure in her appearance. It’s not mascara in the form that she knows it, but she follows the instructions given to her by Margaret: dip the stiff brush into some water and then into the cake. Doing so causes a white film and bubbles to erupt on the surface of the cake and Emma makes a face at their appearance. Is this…soap?

Unable to believe her eyes, Emma double checks that the case itself still reads Maybelline, and sure enough it does. Shaking her head slightly, Emma leans in towards the mirror and drags the brush through her lashes. The effect isn’t as dramatic as the mascara from her own time period, but the product and brush still push her lashes up and fan them out, making them appear, if only slightly, thicker and fuller. Margaret had instructed Emma to pull the product through her brows as well but considering how thick and Instagram-worthy her eyebrows already are, Emma doesn’t feel the need to alter them any further.

It’s the one modern trend she can’t bear to part with, in spite of all her other sacrifices. Emma can’t imagine succumbing to the thin, drawn on brows of the 1920s, not when she’s only just managed to salvage her brows following the early 2000s sperm-brow trend. It’s a small allowance, one of the little things that could give her away, but it’s not as big of an allowance as refusing to smack her students with her ruler would be. What harm could come of not plucking her eyebrows into such thin lines?

She shudders slightly at the very thought of doing so.

No, despite how unfashionable her brows may be, Emma will not be changing them any time soon.

Next comes rouge, which Emma applies to her cheeks with a light hand; it’s still 1918 and the excess that comes with the 20s isn’t quite in effect. She also doesn’t want to be wasteful with Margaret’s products.

Margaret is the most fashionable woman at the boarding house, spending her wages on the ever-changing silhouettes of the war (and now post-war) era instead of saving up like most of the women here do. Despite appearances, Margaret is also the most intuitive woman Emma lives with; she had been able to tell, despite the blasé way in which Emma now recounts the story of her departure from America, that Emma missed her parents. Margaret had, after all, heard the unrehearsed version of Emma’s story, which had been cobbled together from bits of historical romance novels she’d read back in her own time. Emma has since improved at telling the tale in such a way that rebuffs any pity and rejects the idea that she misses her parents, but this is only following much trial and error. As a result of her poor first performance, Margaret, on occasion, asks Emma if she’s had a chance to write her parents and right things with them, to which she lets out a little laugh and replies that _no, in fact, she has not_.

Despite the certainty with which she now delivers her response and the immutable, almost eternal nature of her negations, Margaret still asks. And the fewer people that ask about Emma’s parents, the better. But telling Margaret that she had indeed written her parents would only invite more scrutiny: what had they said? Were they willing to welcome her back into the family? Would they be sending her a stipend?

No, the best and only thing she can do is to refuse to rectify her relationship with her parents out of resentment.

Last is the tube of lipstick Margaret had managed to procure. It’s a new product, Margaret had told Emma, and it would soon be taking England by storm. The shade matches the rouge Margaret had given her, the pink only slightly darker than that of Emma’s natural lips, and she carefully traces the lipstick over her mouth. The color isn’t quite as racy as Emma had expected, which is good because it means she won’t stand out too much; makeup is only _just_ coming into fashion—despite what Margaret might say—and that goes double for women of lower socioeconomic standing.

Still, it’s a small allowance. Another little thing. She just wants to look _nice_ for once, and looking in the mirror, she has achieved that: with her natural brows, sooty lashes, and pink lips and cheeks, she looks _alive_. She’s struck suddenly by the fact that this is the first time she’s doing something for herself, the first time she’s doing something _beyond_ what she’s supposed to do.

_That and last night…_

She flushes to the roots of her light hair as she recalls eyes as cold and blue as ice. A handsome man he had been, but she can’t afford handsome. She can’t afford anything. No, it’s best that she grows old alone. For marrying the wrong man might alter history, might somehow lead to someone important never being born. Besides, the same mysterious forces that had abducted her from outside the concert hall in New York might abscond with her again. With no warning, no ability to bid her lover goodbye…no, she’s already done that to her parents. She won’t form any real, lasting attachments here, won’t do the same thing to anyone else.

With her face now painted to perfection, Emma dresses for the day, pulling on her undergarments and then a long skirt with nice, deep pockets. If there’s one thing she doesn’t miss about modern clothing, it’s its aversion to women’s pockets. The knit cardigan that she dons over her shirtwaist is even further proof of the fact that the handbag industry is what brought an end to pockets, with two more pockets lining the front of it.

Emma returns the products to Margaret and then heads to the main floor of the boarding house. As per usual, Mary and Gertrude are up and eating the plain porridge provided to all of them every morning by Mrs. O’Connor, the older woman who runs the house. The two women expect to be allowed to work less now that the men have returned from the war, but evidently, they will still have to go in today, based on the clothes they’re wearing.

“Mornin’, Em,” Mary greets her, glancing up briefly from the paper. “You look nice today.”

Gertrude mumbles something that might also be a hello as Emma slips into the seat across from her.

“Thanks, and good morning to you, too,” Emma replies, smoothing at her cardigan and skirt. “Going into the factory again?”

Mary scoffs slightly, tossing aside the paper so that she can properly attack her porridge. “Goin’ in for as long as I can, aye?”

Emma is saved a response by Mrs. O’Connor entering the eating area. “Here, eat, dear girl,” she says, placing a bowl in front of Emma.

She murmurs her thanks as Mrs. O’Connor dutifully returns to the kitchen to read her own paper. Ever since Mr. O’Connor passed last winter, the older woman has been more withdrawn, passing most days with her knitting. Emma can remember the look of shock on the collections officer’s face when Mrs. O’Connor had shown up with a veritable mountain of woolen socks to ship off to the soldiers in France. At least she had taken up a useful activity in her grief instead of succumbing to the temptation of drinking to numb the pain, like Mr. Smith had after his wife had passed following that accident in the factory.

Emma shudders at the reminder; Gertrude had been inconsolable when she’d returned from work with blood dotting the hem of her skirt, and she hasn’t spoken much ever since.

She eats quickly as Mary continues to complain about how unfair it is that she will be pushed from the factories just because of her sex, and soon it’s time for the three of them to head out. She dresses in her slightly mismatched tam hat and wool coat and makes her way to the train station. Her ticket has already been booked, and she boards the train to London without a second look back at Birmingham.

* * *

London is simultaneously much cleaner and yet much dirtier than Birmingham. It certainly helps appearances that London’s streets are cobblestone-paved, while Birmingham’s roads are a solid layer of mud and muck. But, beyond that, in Birmingham, everything seems to have a thin—or sometimes even thick—layer of grime to it, at least partially due to the factories on the edges of the city, which spew a haze of black smoke that seems to find its way into everything. If Emma weren’t already so sure that she’d die of secondhand smoke, she might be more concerned about the pollutants. London is still polluted, but the air is tinged with something greater than the sum of its parts. If she had to put a name to the difference—and if she were being ridiculous—then she might call it _freedom._ The air in London tastes like _freedom_.

It’s the people in London that make it dirty. It’s not like they’re unwashed or anything, it’s just that they’re _rude._ Snobby. Perhaps a better way of putting it is that they make _her_ feel dirty. Like filth, like she belongs at their feet and no higher. She supposes it’s obvious, based on her clothes—which aren’t exactly the height of fashion—that she’s not one of the elites. Or perhaps it’s the fact that she is unaccompanied by a man that makes her so detestable.

These things, which are so normal in Birmingham and in her own time, make her stand out in London.

For once, she can’t bring herself to care. Maybe it’s because it’s London and she feels more confident here. She’s visited the city before—before all of this, back in her own time, when things were brighter, cleaner, but more worn. Or perhaps it’s the fact that no one here _knows_ her, but she feels lighter, freer.

Or maybe it’s just the fact that after today, she’ll once again be in possession of a violin.

And so, it’s with a certain sort of self-assuredness to her step that she enters the store. The inside is absolutely beautiful, with handcrafted bows, cellos, violas, and violins taking up all the available space, their wood glossy from Mr. Aubert’s frequent polishing. All assortment of accessories from fine tuners to strings sit in a display case which also serves as the counter, behind which Mr. Aubert stands, his back turned as he plucks thoughtfully at the strings of a viola. The open C rings out, and Emma winces.

“A little sharp,” Emma comments by way of greeting.

Mr. Aubert jumps slightly at the interruption but when he sees that it’s just her, he relaxes. “Ah, Mademoiselle Williams! So good to see you again. I was beginning to think you would not return,” he says, voice heavy with phlegm as his accent distorts the _R._ “Come, come.” He beckons her away from the door and towards the counter.

Once she’s close enough, he carefully extracts a violin from its spot on the wall. It’s the instrument that had formerly agreed upon, and if she had forgotten what shape it was in before, she’s now reminded; it’s worn and battered with nicks and scratches all over the wood. She can tell without playing it that the strings are old and will need replacing; near the bridge, they’re completely coated in rosin. Either Mr. Aubert hadn’t been able to wipe it off, or he hadn’t bothered, considering it’s one of his lower quality instruments.

“You’ll have to select a bow, of course,” Mr. Aubert says as he hands her the violin. “I’ve prepared three options, all within the agreed upon price range.”

He turns to find the bows and she takes the opportunity to pluck at the strings, frowning. The sound they make is dull and out of tune.

“New strings, perhaps, Mr. Aubert?” she asks politely, and he gives her a nod. It’s a good thing she’s saved more than the agreed upon price, because the strings will run her a decent amount more; not quite as much as the $100 USD she’d paid in her own time period, but still quite expensive.

She’s pleased to find that the fine tuners, tuning pegs, bridge, and soundpost are all intact, as they had been when she’d first reserved the instrument. It’s been over a year since she’d first set foot into Mr. Aubert’s shop. She’d boarded the train to London on a whim one Saturday, needing to clear her mind after a student had forced her hand and been accordingly sent to the headmaster’s office. She’d had to watch as the headmaster broke out the paddle and spanked the child inconsolable. Back then, she hadn’t been quite so hard, quite so jaded. Back then, she’d gone home and cried herself to sleep for that child. Now, she realizes that’s just the way of things.

Emma is snapped from her reverie when Mr. Aubert places four new strings in front of her, along with the first bow she’s meant to try. She allows him to take the instrument from her and replace the strings himself, knowing she will be out of practice and that it will be much faster for him to do so. Once that’s done, he hands her the violin again.

She assumes posture, wishing desperately for a Kun or even an Ever-rest. Instead, she cements the instrument against her collar bone. Shifting is much more difficult without a shoulder rest; the lack of proper support means that the thumb is often tasked with providing additional help propping up the instrument, which, in turn, makes it harder to move it up and down with the rest of the hand.

Once she’s confident that she’s holding the violin as securely as she can, she reaches for the bow. Matching the bow to the instrument is a very important step in the process. The right bow brings out the sound and tone of the violin; some bows are more suited for orchestra or quartet-playing, while others are more suited for soloists. The latter is what she wants—Emma’s fairly certain she won’t be playing in any sort of orchestra or any sort of -tet, quar- or otherwise, anytime soon.

The first bow sounds too crisp and not warm enough to her ear. The second is too light and doesn’t project the sound well-enough. It’s more suited for, say, Mozart than Tchaikovsky. She wants her bow to bring out the darker tones of this violin, but then again, perhaps it’s just the way this violin is built. Perhaps the violin _itself_ doesn’t have the tone quality she’s looking for.

She frowns as Mr. Aubert hands her the third bow.

_Third time’s the charm._

But when she draws it across the strings, the sound projection is somehow even _worse_ than it was with either of the two other bows.

Mr. Aubert is looking at her expectantly, but she has nothing nice to say. Instead, she clears her throat. His expression drops. “Are the bows not to your liking, Mademoiselle?” he asks.

She shakes her head mutely. All this time, a full two years of saving and scouting out the violin and having it reserved for her, and she can’t find the perfect bow. Never mind if it’s not the perfect violin—because if _that’s_ the problem, then she’ll be forced to save up even longer in order to get the right instrument. She was hoping she could make do with a violin on the cheaper end, but perhaps that was too naïve of her. Perhaps she was being too idealistic.

“I have one more bow that might suit this violin,” he says, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “But it will cost you.” His eyes settle on the instrument in her hands. “Of course,” he starts, “if you are truly the player you claim to be, I would be more than willing to allow you to pay in installments.”

For the first time in a long time, Emma smiles something other than a smile of courtesy. “Truly, Mr. Aubert?”

He smiles in return. “Who am I to separate a violinist from their violin, no?”

She sets the bow on the countertop and he returns it to its place.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mademoiselle, I will go get the bow,” he tells her, and bows slightly as he exits towards the back.

While he’s gone, she allows her eyes to wander over the instruments. There are great cellos which shine red-gold in the shop’s soft lighting, and a double bass, its wood deep and dark, stands propped in one corner. Mr. Aubert doesn’t sell sheet music, but there are a few finely carved wooden stands scattered throughout the shop. She admires them for a moment before turning back to the wall where violins and violas hang in all their glory. She ignores the slightly larger violas in favor of examining the violins, some of which are so small and delicate, they’re clearly meant for children.

She remembers playing a violin that small when she was but a child herself. Her mother and father had always encouraged her love of music, and since they’d had money to spare, it was only natural that they spend it on a violin and lessons. Even back then, Emma had always been a proficient and precocious player. She’d dazzled in competitions and soon she was considered a child prodigy. This had, as greatness typically does, come with a great deal of pressure, but she’d pushed through it to become one of the best and youngest soloists in the world. Her greatest memory to this day is the praise that she had received from Perlman himself, who had likened her to a young Heifetz.

She’d shelved her professional career for a few years to attend Juilliard but had picked right back up where she’d left off. It was during her latest performance in New York that she’d somehow managed to be transported into the past.

She hadn’t done anything particularly special that night. She’d played Mendelssohn’s Concerto and a few other pieces for a very polite crowd, and then she’d been treated to flowers and champagne by the conductor. She’d lurked in the Lincoln Center for maybe a little longer than she would usually, mentally going over her performance and even playing through some passages again just to reassure herself that she’d played them as well as she could. By the time she had finished her after-concert ritual, the orchestra members had left, and the only other people in the building were the cleaners.

Emma had packed up her violin case and her purse, which was stuffed with her wallet and her cell phone. Upon exiting the building, she had put down her violin case for just a second so that she could readjust the strap of her purse without having to juggle things, and that was when it had happened. She’d just _vanished._ One second, she was on a sidewalk in New York, the next, hello Birmingham, 1916.

She remembers being confused by the sudden appearance of the sun; it had been late at night in New York and for it to be day had been her first clue that something was off. Then there were the streets of Small Heath, mucky and gross. And the people, with their odd clothing. She remembers feeling so overwhelmed by the _wrongness_ of her situation.

Her eyes trace the wall of violins until she alights on one particular violin that makes her freeze. Before she can consider the instrument any further, Mr. Aubert has returned with the bow in hand.

“Sorry that took so long,” he apologizes, placing the bow carefully on the counter. He traces her unwavering stare up to the violin. “Ah, Mademoiselle has a great eye,” he says when she manages to drag her gaze away from the violin long enough to meet his. “It’s a Stradivarius. I estimate it to have been made in the late 17th century, likely around 1690.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says, her voice tight, because it is. She’s always thought it beautiful. After all, it is _her_ violin. The violin that she’ll have in the future.

“Would you like to play it?” Mr. Aubert asks kindly, and her fingers twitch in want.

She tamps down on the desire. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I insist!” he says, taking the violin from the wall and pressing it into her hands.

She knows precisely how to hold this instrument, her fingers sliding down until they’re hovering over the fingerboard at just the right distance from the scroll. He passes her the bow that he’d brought from the back room and she notes somewhere in the back of her mind that it’s a Tourte and probably costs more than twice one of the bows he’d presented her with earlier, but she’s too far gone to care.

The bow melds perfectly with her Stradivarius as she begins to play a series of scales to take herself and the instrument through its paces. Finally, she starts playing Bach’s Chaconne, gliding effortlessly through the double-stops and allowing the melody to take her wherever it longs to go. The sound she’s able to produce is dark, yet simultaneously warm, like a hug after a nightmare. This. _This_ is what she’s been missing. This is what it feels like to be _alive_ , to be _living_ , to be breathing and feeling and thinking and _oh_ has she missed this. She closes her eyes and lets herself be carried away by the music. She doesn’t drown under the force of it, rather floats atop it, cresting and falling and moving with it. When she’s finally finished the piece, she feels something inside her wither and die. She will never be able to afford this violin. Not in her wildest, most extravagant dreams.

The very thought causes her to get choked up. “I—here,” she says, passing Mr. Aubert back her Stradivarius without waiting to hear whatever praise he might have.

His eyes soften with understanding, though he can’t possibly understand how she feels right now. How it feels to be so far away yet so close to a reminder of her previous life, the life she’d lived _before_. “It’s a beautiful instrument, is it not?” Mr. Aubert asks rhetorically as he hangs it from the wall, once more disguising it as just an ordinary violin.

From all the way back here, she can barely tell it was ever hers to begin with.

She finds, to her surprise, that her eyes are stinging with unshed tears. “Yes, very beautiful.” She coughs, trying to rid herself of the lump in her throat. “Now, this bow,” she says, holding it up for their combined perusal. “Am I correct in assuming it is a Tourte?”

“Mademoiselle certainly knows her violins, bow and all!” Mr. Aubert exclaims with a laugh. “Yes, it is one of the cheaper Tourtes I have in my collection. It’ll still run you a pretty penny, but I think you’ll find the quality superior.”

“May I try it with the violin?” she asks, and he gives her permission. She takes the cheaper violin through a series of arpeggios and double-stops as she tries to find the balance in the sound. This bow makes her articulation sharper, more defined, and when she plays the G string in particular, the sound is heavy, like wading through honey, and she finds that she likes it more than any of the other bows she’s tried today.

The violin itself is lacking a certain amount of depth compared to her Stradivarius, but it’s still nice. If the bow can bring her within the same _universe_ as her Strad, then maybe it is worth the splurge.

Besides, he had told her she could pay in installments.

She places both bow and violin on the counter, her mind made up.

“You’ll take it?” Mr. Aubert queries, his kind eyes warm.

“Yes,” she says. “And Mr. Aubert?” He looks up from putting the violin in a case. “Please don’t sell that Strad to anyone else if you can help it. I’ll be back for it.”

He chuckles. “For you, Mademoiselle Williams? I will try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to nini_pls for making the first ever meme for this fic lmao
> 
> If you were curious, I do play viola (insert TwoSet joke here), which is how I know so much about the process of finding the right bow. However, violas don't have as interesting a repertoire as violins do, which is why I chose to write Emma as a violinist.
> 
> Mr. Aubert is named after my viola, which is an Aubert brand.
> 
> Stradivarius or Stradavari is of course the name of a very famous Italian instrument-maker who produced violins, violas, cellos, etc. back in the 17th and 18th century
> 
> Tourte is the name of a bow-maker who is often considered to be the "Stradivari of bow-making".
> 
> Perlman is a reference to Itzhak Perlman who is a famous violinist. He's still alive today, and there are many recordings of him playing.
> 
> Meanwhile, Heifetz is largely considered to be the best violin player of all time because of both the emotion with which he played, and his impeccable (and unparalleled) technical skill. To be compared to Heifetz would be the greatest compliment one could ever receive.
> 
> Additionally, the makeup and clothes that Emma wears have been extensively researched :') I spent lots of time on this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma gets back from London, has tea with Margaret, and meets a mysterious stranger at the canal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who commented! I'm taking meme suggestions for this chapter, so please send em :P You can [ join my Discord with this link!!](https://discord.gg/phzUsxX)

Emma enjoys the rest of her day in London. She goes to High Street and browses the shops, taking in the expensive clothing. Due to the war, all supplies had been rationed to a certain extent, and tailors had been asked to turn their production towards uniforms for the soldiers rather than clothing for the common people. As a result, Emma is somewhat surprised that any of these shops have such luxe items for sale so quickly: considering the armistice only happened earlier this month, and the soldiers had only just come home yesterday, it feels a little jarring to be seeing such rich fabrics and vibrant colors so soon. She’s too used to beige and brown and having to constantly mend her clothing, ratty from being worn too often and washed so frequently. But Emma supposes that daily life is finally returning to some semblance of normality.

And so, she browses the windows, full of beautiful silk dresses of all colors and patterns, stylish heeled boots that she knows pinch her toes, and tam hats in every shade one can imagine. If she had more money, she might consider investing in a new piece for her wardrobe. Perhaps a new coat, as the one she’s wearing had been given to her by Margaret, who had told Emma to take it one cold October evening when Emma had come back to the boarding house, chilled to the bone, her lips blue. Margaret had insisted that the coat was out of fashion and that she had been meaning to replace it for a while, and thus Emma had acquired a coat without having to buy one. It had been two years since Margaret had gifted Emma the coat, and Emma had yet to find a way to truly thank the other woman for what she’d done. When Emma had received her paycheck a day later and attempted to repay her even a fraction of what she was owed, Margaret had waved away the cash with a pretty laugh, easily dismissing the offer. Indeed, by that time, Margaret had already bought herself a lovely double-breasted coat with a beautiful fur stole and matching hand muff.

Emma had been left wondering how Margaret had replaced the items so quickly. But, rather than concern herself with the affairs of the other woman, Emma had decided to move on. It wasn’t that Emma enjoyed feeling like a charity case, but rather that her pride had been quelled by time and Margaret’s continued kindness, which she had originally doubted, and still struggled to accept. Never had Margaret made Emma feel as though she owed her for the coat, nor had she ever let the conversation dwell on the topic any time Emma brought it up, which had been rare as Emma seldom saw Margaret, who always seemed to be flitting about town.

In fact, when Emma had asked to borrow makeup from Margaret for today, that had been the first time she’d seen Margaret properly in months. Most nights, the other woman wasn’t even at the boarding house for dinner, preferring to stay out late doing…well, Emma wasn’t exactly sure _what_ , and so it had been mostly dumb luck that Margaret had made an appearance at Friday’s dinner so that Emma could even ask about the makeup for Saturday. It wasn’t that none of the other women in the boarding house wore makeup. Rather, Emma had borrowed from Margaret because there existed the beginnings of an acquaintanceship with the other woman; she had established some rapport with her and so it would be less awkward to ask her.

However, in all seriousness, due to her pledge not to leave anyone else behind, Emma had made a concerted effort not to befriend any of the women at the boarding house. And so, while she spoke occasionally to Mary and Gertrude and Rita and, indeed, Margaret, Emma had never gone out of her way to spend more time with any of them then was strictly necessary.

Unfortunately, that was due to change.

After going to a bakery and buying a loaf of delicious brown bread, Emma boards the train back to Birmingham. It’s late in the afternoon by the time she makes it back to Small Heath, nearing supper, and Emma takes the extra time afforded to her to go on a walk down by the canal.

“The Cut” is what the locals call the canal that runs by the factories and by extension the boarding house. The water is relatively stagnant, and during the summer months it’s positively nightmarish to walk by it due to the sheer number of mosquitos. But on a cold November night, it’s the perfect place to go for some peace and quiet. Few people frequent the canal, mostly because of the smell—a mixture of that same stagnant water and factory smoke that Emma is sure is turning her lungs black. But if it isn’t the factory smoke then it’s something else that’s going to kill her; cigarettes, drinking, syphilis…all of which are rampant in Birmingham.

She’s not been walking very long, her light steps punctuated by the clang of machinery, when a voice calls out to her.

“Em!”

On reflex, her left foot, posed to take another step forward, freezes in place. She turns hesitantly on the heel of her boot, unsure who could be calling her.

And who should she find but Margaret?

Speak of the devil—or think of her, Emma supposes—and she shall appear. The brunette woman’s hair is tucked under a dark green tam hat, which matches her coat. Poking out from under the long hem of said garment is a stripe of Margaret’s rich brown skirt; draped artfully around her shoulders in a sort of devil-may-care fashion that is far too impeccably arranged to be as relaxed as it pretends is Margaret’s luscious fur stole; her hands, meanwhile, are tucked securely into the matching muff and held, posture flawless, at the exact right height and alignment. To put it shortly, Margaret, with her curled black lashes and rouge-stained lips and cheeks, could easily be on the cover of a magazine.

“Em, how on earth are you today? Is that your violin? Oh, I can tell from the case that it will be beautiful! ‘It?’ Or do you say she or he? Well, at any rate, what did you name him or her?” Margaret gushes and internally Emma groans; for as nice as Margaret is, she does tend to talk. A lot.

It’s a blessing and a curse: it keeps Emma from having to contribute to the conversation most of the time, but it’s also…well, _annoying_ , if Emma were being honest. Still, she keeps the ever-present and carefully practiced polite (if not warm) smile on her face. “Yes, I picked it up a few hours ago. I’ve only just returned,” she says, fingers clenching around the case. Her smile does not falter. “I was just taking a peaceful walk before supper.”

 _The insinuation being that you’re interrupting it_ , she thinks, perhaps a bit uncharitably; Margaret means no harm, despite her incessant chatter and perpetual need to ask about Emma’s parents. She is simply trying to be kind. Though, when the universe itself has done Emma such a great unkindness by dropping her in the past without warning, without any sort of choice or say in the matter, it becomes difficult to accept that there is _any_ sort of kindness at all in the world. Its very existence is something of which she constantly needs to remind herself. It’s hard to accept that people aren’t trying to screw her over at every turn, that they are instead motivated by kindness, and this isn’t all some sick joke, some _Truman Show_ -esque display of care where everyone has ulterior motivations, where they’re just playing out a script. It’s part of why Emma had been so perplexed when Margaret had given her the coat, and indeed part of why the coat still weighs so heavily on her mind.

“I shall join you then,” Margaret says decisively, snapping Emma from her thoughts.

And while Emma might have expected that Margaret would take the occasion to blather on, Margaret surprises her by keeping the silence between them. It’s not until they’re closing in on the boarding house that Margaret breaks it.

“I find that the Cut is a good place for reflection,” Margaret comments, gazing out at the canal peacefully. A cold breeze sweeps by, almost as if caused by her very presence, disturbing the surface and making ripples cascade across the water.

Emma shivers. “Yes, I do as well,” she replies, perhaps a bit more shortly than she should.

Margaret remains unbothered, instead stopping to stare across the water at the factories, with their omniscient smokestacks and impenetrable brick which Emma had paid little mind to until Margaret’s appearance. The grind of steel and the harsh whir of machinery is somehow deafening yet quiet all at once, and the heavy smoke seeps almost deliberately into her lungs, as if polluting her from the inside out.

They linger for a few seconds longer, Emma staring at her reflection in the dirty water until the wind has so thoroughly altered her appearance as to be unrecognizable, a blurry conglomeration of colors and shapes that, if rearranged, could be Emma, but as it stands, could be _anyone_.

No. She is not just anyone. She is Emma. She will _always_ , at heart, be Emma.

And she thinks, disjointedly, as she stares into the water, into the dark abyss, about butterfly wings and hurricanes.

 _I will not be a ripple_ , she tells her reflection. _I won’t._

“Come,” Margaret’s voice beckons as she nods towards the boarding house, “Mrs. O’Connor should have supper ready at any minute.”

And with that, the pair of them continue on their way.

* * *

Dinner is always a lively affair with Margaret around. Even Mrs. O’Connor, who’s usually quiet and withdrawn can be coaxed into a laugh or two. Margaret’s wild storytelling (and the bottle of wine she’d procured) ensure as much. It isn’t often that the women of the boarding house drink; Mrs. O’Connor occasionally picks up a bottle of port for the holidays, but unless Emma wants to go to a pub, that’s as much alcohol as she normally drinks, and she figures that it’s much the same for the other women. So, it doesn’t take much for them all to get tipsy, and soon Margaret’s stories, which were funny to begin with, become absolutely hysterical, until Mary is crying with laughter.

Soon, the only quiet one is Gertrude, but even she manages to crack a few smiles.

The evening finally comes to an end when Mrs. O’Connor says she simply must be getting to bed, else she won’t be going to church tomorrow, and Rita, who has always been devoutly religious, agrees.

They all look to Margaret for permission and she nods reluctantly. “If we must,” she says, red lips pulling into a bright smile.

And that’s their cue to start helping Mrs. O’Connor wash up. Emma gets stuck scrubbing the dishes this evening, but she doesn’t mind; there’s something relaxing about the circular movements she applies with the sponge. It isn’t until Margaret takes a place beside her at the sink to rinse off the dishes that Emma realizes she’s veritably trapped. She can’t abandon the duty she has taken up, nor can she ignore Margaret’s questions.

Instead, Margaret engages in a conversation with Rita, who’s drying the dishes and putting them away.

So, it knocks Emma slightly off kilter when Margaret directs her attention onto Emma a few moments later.

“Emma, would you care to join me for a cup of tea?” Margaret asks as she finishes rinsing off the last dish.

Emma, who is washing her hands, stalls for an excuse. “I was going to play violin—” she starts, but Margaret waves her away.

“It’s far too late for that,” she admonishes. “You heard Mrs. O’Connor: church tomorrow morning and she’s not to be late!”

Emma knew she should have said she was going to bed.

“Besides, we so rarely see each other,” Margaret adds.

Feeling like she has no other options, Emma simply nods.

Margaret sets the kettle to boil and slowly the rest of the women filter out of the kitchen, until it’s just the two of them, though it’s not until the tea has been poured into two chipped cups that Margaret speaks.

“How was your day?” she asks. “Tell me about this violin.”

Emma’s tongue swipes at her bottom lip in thought. She takes a sip of too hot tea. “It’s beautiful,” she begins without thinking, flashing back to the instrument in question. The wood was a deep reddish brown, offset by the rich black of the finger board and the chin rest. _Her Stradivarius_. But no, Margaret was referring to violin Emma had actually bought. It was no less stunning, even with the deep gouges and surface-level scratches in its dark brown finish, but the sound of it…it was a completely different instrument. She clears her throat. “I mean, it’s okay.”

Margaret raises a brow. “Which is it, then?” she asks in amusement. “Beautiful or just okay?”

Emma’s fingers clench on the teacup in irritation. “Both,” she answers briskly, taking another sip of the tea and scalding her mouth once again.

Margaret’s smile is indulgent. “Of course,” she says, shifting in her chair slightly so that she can cross her legs. “Well, it goes without saying that you look lovely today, Emma.”

Slightly thrown off guard, Emma’s polite smile falters into something genuine. “Oh, thank you very much. The makeup you let me borrow truly worked wonders.”

“It can’t do miracles,” Margaret dismisses, “it only emphasizes the beauty that’s already there.”

If this were the twenty-first century, Emma would have thought that Margaret was flirting with her, but it’s not, and so she replies, “Yes, well, I wouldn’t have been able to emphasize it without you.”

Margaret peers at her closely and Emma can’t help but fidget under her gaze. “Hmm, yes,” she says, seemingly content with staring at her. “You should do your eyebrows next time,” she advises.

Emma puffs out a breath. While she has dark brows considering her blonde hair, the idea of trying to do her eyebrows with a stiff brush rather than a spoolie sounds almost impossible.

One of Margaret’s own thin brows arches as she awaits a response.

“Maybe next time,” Emma hedges.

Margaret hums. “And perhaps a bit more rouge. You’re very pale, Emma.”

If only Margaret knew how much makeup Emma used to wear. She would spend an hour in front of the mirror, painting her face to perfection, sweeping tens of shades of shadow across her lids and gluing false lashes into place. She would contour and put on so much highlighter, she wouldn’t be surprised if her cheekbones could be seen from space. But this isn’t the twenty-first century, and they don’t have that kind of makeup. As far as anyone in Birmingham is concerned, while Emma might have worn makeup before, it had been applied by some sort of maid. She isn’t supposed to be perfect at applying it.

Emma’s lips press into a line. She takes another sip of tea. This time it’s almost drinkable. “I’ll take it under advisement, but I don’t plan on wearing makeup again.” Margaret’s head cocks to the side. “Because it’s expensive,” Emma presses on.

Margaret nods. “I see, and you just spent so much money on that violin, too.”

Emma bristles at the insinuation that perhaps the violin was a waste of money, even if that hadn’t been Margaret’s intention to imply as much. “I’d rather have the violin,” she says firmly.

Margaret blinks. “Of course, dear girl,” she says, taking a sip of her own tea. “What I meant to say is that you can borrow my makeup whenever you want.”

It’s Emma’s turn to blink. “Oh,” she says rather eloquently.

Margaret’s red lips pull into a sweet smile that shows off the dimples in her cheeks. God, she’s pretty. “In fact, how about you let me do your makeup for Monday? I would do it tomorrow before church, but I’m afraid I have plans.” Her brown eyes glint with a mysterious kind of mischief.

Emma has the chance to weigh her options for only a second before Margaret interrupts her. “Of course, you have no say in the matter,” she drawls, grin spreading. “I won’t be around much this week, so Monday’s really my only chance to do something nice for you.”

 _Do something nice for me?_ Emma thinks. “Margaret, you’ve already done too much for me. The coat, the makeup—”

“Because you deserve it,” Margaret interrupts with a wave of her hand, her tone more serious than Emma has ever heard it. “I know you don’t need my help. I’m sure you can take care of yourself. But I want to help you. You deserve some kindness, Emma.”

Not for the first time, Emma gets the feeling that there’s something more to Margaret than the persona of a pretty and charming—but empty-headed—woman. She gets the feeling that Margaret knows or suspects something she shouldn’t.

And that _terrifies_ her.

She takes a fortifying gulp of tea. “I don’t know what you mean,” she says, trying not to let that fear take over.

Before Emma can retract her hand, Margaret has reached across the table and taken it into her own. Emma blames the wine for slowing her reaction time. “Just know that I’m here for you,” Margaret says, that smile splitting her cheeks wide with a slash of red and a flash of teeth. “If you ever need a friend.” She knocks back the rest of her tea in a few swigs and then cleans the cup in the sink.

It isn’t until Emma hears her footsteps retreating up the stairs that she finally releases a breath she didn’t even know she was holding, only to sharply and shallowly inhale as her repressed anxiety takes root.

_Shit. Fuck._

Her thoughts spiral as she sits in the kitchen, worry a hollow pit in her stomach and a pinch in her brows. The polite smile, however, remains fixed on her face, even as she struggles to regain control of her breathing, even as she starts hyperventilating.

Her fingers tighten on the teacup and it feels like she’s frozen in place.

Finally, a coherent thought: _Air. I need air._

She almost knocks the chair over in her haste, her limbs heavy and awkward and her vision tunneling. She staggers towards the door and only manages to twist the knob with her shaking fingers after her third attempt, and then finally, blessedly, she’s outside.

The frigid air hits her in waves as she walks down by the canal, her coat forgotten. It brings her out of her head, and coldness seeps into her lungs like a drug, drowning her, drowning, drowning, until—

A glint of gold, a shadow of a man, a plop as something hits the water.

She slowly joins him at the edge of the canal for some reason she can’t explain.

He examines the next object in his hands with an expression of disdain, bringing it up to his eyes for inspection. Her own eyes follow the action and alight upon his face, which is half encased in darkness as the lamplight shines on the other half. From under the brim of his flat newsboy cap, she can see eyes so blue and so uninviting, they may as well be the Arctic. His full lips are pulled into a slight frown around his cigarette as if to show his displeasure, but his eyes are, so, so closed off, like he’s barely seeing the world around him.

Her breath hitches and she tries not to choke on smoke. She feels heat shoot through her in spite of it all; in spite of the cold, in spite of her lingering panic, in spite of the fact that she’s never found smoking to be attractive, in spite, in spite, in spite.

Everything about him warns her not to say anything, to just keep walking. But before her brain can catch up with her, her voice has blurted out: “You’re that man from the train station.”

He glances up, seeming unsurprised to find that he’s not alone. He considers her for only a second, his eyes traveling from her face to her feet. “Are you a whore.”

He doesn’t ask, he states it like it’s a fact.

She bites her lip to keep from sputtering in indignation. If she had a penny for every time she’d been asked that, she would have been able to afford her real violin. Besides, with her makeup, and her lack of coat, and her walking around at night, she probably resembles a whore more than she ever has.

Another wet plop and whatever it is that he was holding has been flicked into the canal. She opens her mouth to ask him what he’s doing, but he takes one last glance at her, his eyes glacial, and then turns around and heads on his way.

She approaches the canal cautiously, creeping closer and closer until she’s leaning right over the edge, on the precipice of falling over. Before it can sink into the water’s murky depths, she catches a glimpse of a medal. The ripples and the lighting do her no favors in trying to discern what it’s for, but she can guess.

Shaking her head slightly, her brows raised in confusion, Emma starts back towards the boarding house. It isn’t until she’s halfway there that she realizes, with a start, that she never answered his question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The consensus from nini_pls and my other friend/beta LynnDenbaum is that Margemma should happen. What do you think?
> 
> UPDATE: My friend Wessel photoshopped "I will not be a ripple" onto this photo of a 1920s woman (who could totally be Margaret) for me :D It's definitely the quote of the chapter, and many thanks to him for thinking of me (and Emma).

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks again to my betas, [ LynnDenbaum ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnDenbaum/pseuds/LynnDenbaum) and [ nini_pls ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nini_pls/pseuds/nini_pls) :D They truly make writing this story a breeze, and you should 100% check out their work here on Ao3
> 
> Also, you can [ join my Discord with this link!!](https://discord.gg/phzUsxX)


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